


Five People Who Loved Spock

by CorpusInvictus



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 20:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CorpusInvictus/pseuds/CorpusInvictus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the Star Trek XI Kink Meme prompt: “Five people who loved Spock and the one he loved back. Ending Kirk/Spock. Can include OCs, Uhura, whatever. :) Bonus points for creativity with those five people!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five People Who Loved Spock

**Author's Note:**

> I got stuck in dialogue and exposition mode on the last bit, so I’m sorry if it meanders a bit. At least there’s porn to make up for it?

**Five People Who Loved Spock**

**5\. T’Pring**

They are seven years old, and their parents have shoved them in this little antechamber before the betrothal ceremony takes place. They may be Vulcans, but cooties are a universal plague to children, and they spend the first few minutes sitting at opposite ends of the room, not quite glaring at each other.

To her own surprise, T’Pring finds herself speaking first. “I am carrying no diseases, whether contagious or self-contained, and my mother told me it would be wise to bathe before arriving here. There is no logical reason for you to be sitting so far away.”

Spock stares at her evenly, but there’s a hint of distrust in the too-human eyes. “You,” he informs her with all the terrible gravity a seven year old can muster, “are friends with Stonn.”

She scoots forward a bit, away from the wall, her new dressing robe scuffing on the dusty floor. “I am,” she agrees, because she cannot lie. Spock sniffs derisively, something another Vulcan would never dream of doing. The human gesture captures T’Pring’s curiosity. “You disapprove of Stonn?” she continues, still scooting closer.

“Affirmative,” he doesn’t quite grump, his mouth not quite achieving a scowl but certainly hinting towards one.

She notes with some interest that he’s making no attempt to move away from her slow approach, half-crawling closer to him. “Explain,” she says, and it’s less an order and more an appeal.

He shifts uncomfortably, his gaze fixed upon her until she’s sitting directly in front of him, legs crossed just as his own are, knees nearly touching. “Stonn has developed a daily routine of insulting my mother in an attempt to elicit an emotional response from me.”

T’Pring considers this for a moment. “What did your mother do to provoke such an attack?” she asks in what she believes is a completely logical fashion.

“My mother did nothing to provoke the attacks.” He glares at her, and the expression takes her aback. She’s never seen so much outrage in another’s face before.

“Fascinating,” she says, and Spock takes it the wrong way – she can tell because the outrage deepens visibly in the angry furrow between his eyebrows. “Your facial expressions are almost human in nature,” she tries to explain herself. “I have never witnessed anything like it.”

The outrage dissipates back to his initial distrust. “I will attempt a more Vulcan approach to my emotions in the future,” he says quietly, and she can see the effort it takes him to make his face a mask once again.

The fact that he allows himself those expressions, and that he works so hard at masking them when he does so in the presence of someone who might not approve, deepens T’Pring’s fascination. “I think I may understand the appeal of the human approach,” she tells him solemnly, and then she does something Spock never expected; she shyly reaches out the index and middle finger of her right hand, a child’s first attempt at a kiss.

He stares at the outreached fingers for a moment before quickly – so quickly she almost doesn’t feel it – tapping his own against them, shoving his hand back in his robe pocket afterward as though embarrassed.

She allows herself a small upturning of the lips. He will be a fine bondmate, she thinks.

He allows himself a faint green blush. He will have cooties forever, he thinks.

**4\. Aunt Fanny**

Amanda has an older brother who married a much older woman by the name of Frances. Everyone in the family, however, has always called her Fanny, and Spock can’t puzzle out his mother’s hysterical giggling response when he asks why her sister in law has the same name as an archaic slang term for human anatomy. He never does get a proper answer out of her, so he concludes there must be some kind of convoluted human logic behind the name and simply leaves it at that.

He meets her for the first time when Amanda is visiting her family on Earth while Sarek is busy with his ambassadorial duties. Aunt Fanny turns out to be a tall, large-boned woman of intimidating stature and volume, and to a ten year old she seems almost terrifying. “Mandy!” she cries out when they arrive on her doorstep, and Spock sees the wince on his mother’s face at the nickname. “We haven’t seen you in eons – come in!”

“An illogical statement, as the human lifespan averages at approximately one hundred years of age,” Spock pipes up.

Before his mother can say anything – can scold him for applying Vulcan logic to a human situation, or explain the idiom, or even introduce him properly – Aunt Fanny’s booming voice assaults his eardrums again. “And you’ve even brought the Sprocket with you!” she shouts, and suddenly he is surrounded by strong, solid arms and crushed against her perhaps over-ample chest.

Aunt Fanny adores young Spock. Spock cannot say the feeling is mutual.

3\. Kevin Riley

His first year at Starfleet Academy, Spock is assigned a roommate: a loud, energetic Irishman who insists on being called by his first name despite Academy protocol stating that cadets should address each other by their rank and last name. Riley – as Spock insists upon referring to him in his head, if not verbally – even spends his first few days trying to wheedle Spock’s first name out of him. Spock has to admit, even if only to himself, the faint pleasure at the slack-jawed expression on his face when Spock finally recites it to him.

“What the hell kinda name is that?” Riley sputters afterward. “That’s like a hundred more syllables than anyone could ever need!”

“It is only four syllables,” he corrects easily, “with a maximum of five if you include my given name.”

Riley sticks to just Spock from then on. He is also strangely insistent that Spock attend human social gatherings. Many of these take place in any number of bars that cropped up around the Academy shortly after its construction, and Spock quickly finds himself grateful that alcohol does not affect his largely Vulcan constitution.

“Iiiiiiiii’ll take you hoooooooome, Kathleeeeeeen,” Riley is attempting to sing along with the lyrics flashing across the old-fashioned karaoke machine, made even more ridiculous by the fact that the actual song he’s supposed to be singing is titled Hit Me Baby, One More Time (another illogical human song that Spock attempts to persuade Riley is actually about domestic abuse, but his logic is apparently neutralized with Riley’s argument that, “Britney Spears was _hot like burning_ , dude!” Further attempts to inform him that the singer did not seem significantly more or less flammable than any other musical artist fell on deaf ears).

Riley’s friends are giving him those _looks_ again, the ones that mean the Irishman has had his share of being a walking cliché and that it’s time to take him home. Trying desperately to repress the urge to roll his eyes, Spock indulges in a small, exasperated sigh before heaving one of Riley’s arms over his shoulders. “I think it prudent that we return to our quarters,” he explains.

“Ohhhhh Iiiiiii will take you baaaaaaaack, Kathleeeeeeen,” is Riley’s enthusiastic response, and Spock reminds himself to stash a set of earplugs in his pocket the next time he is wheedled into one of these drunken affairs.

“Surely you know more than one verse of that tedious song,” Spock grumbles as he dumps his roommate on his bed.

“I do!” Riley slurs indignantly from his sprawled position over the top of his bed. “The one about going hooooome,” he sings this portion of the sentence, “and the one about taking her baaaaack.”

Spock indulges in another long-suffering sigh. “Your alcohol diffusers are in the top drawer of your nightstand. If you wish, I will retrieve the waste bin from our restroom should your digestive system choose to punish you for the number of drinks you consumed this evening.”

The scathing rebuke is clear in his voice, but Riley simply turns dilated brown eyes on him and croons in the same singsong voice, “I love you, man!”

Spock requests a roommate change effective the following semester.

**2\. Nyota Uhura**

He has felt … affection for Nyota for some time. An attachment, perhaps. He would not have reassigned her if his feelings were any less than they are. Theirs is not an epic romance, but rather something he finds superior to all the overdone, drawn-out, melodramatic affairs his peers seem to indulge in. She is a constant friend, an eager ear when he feels the need for human companionship, and he certainly finds pleasure in their more intimate activities.

But something changes in him the day his mother dies.

Though his peers are largely unaware, he loses two of the women who are in some way important to him that day. There is the obvious loss of his mother, the pain he cannot disguise when he rematerializes on the telepad, the arm he cannot drop for long seconds after he reappears because it will serve as proof of his failure to keep her safe. His heart aches for her loss in a way he cannot describe.

His mind aches for the loss of his betrothed.

He did not love T’Pring – he knows this because he has often analyzed his feelings for her alongside those he has for Nyota and he finds them severely lacking in comparison. It does not make the sudden absence of the tenuous link in his mind any less painful.

He is unsurprised when Nyota follows him into the turbolift, makes no motion or sound of disapproval when she stops it midway. Her presence should be welcome, should perhaps even be necessary at a time when he feels he is bleeding out from the inside. He almost doesn’t feel it when she kisses him. It takes him much longer to respond to her embrace than it rightly should, and he feels awkward and treacherous for holding onto her when his mother and his mindlink have been ripped from him. “Tell me what you need,” she whispers.

He wonders if she knows. She is intelligent – brilliant in her field and naturally curious in many others – and she has spent many years not only becoming proficient in alien languages but in learning their cultures as well. She has had the benefit of Spock teaching her about Vulcan traditions, and he wonders if she knows how much he has lost today. Surely she would be aware that he would have been betrothed as a child, as all Vulcans are. Surely she can feel his mind reeling, reaching out for another.

For a moment he believes she does, when her hands cradle both sides of his face, thumbs resting at one of the psi points used in a mind meld. He can feel her there, very faintly, her empathy and her sadness and her desire to be helpful to him. But he sees in her eyes that this is all that she feels – there is no understanding there, only confusion when he does not immediately respond.

He cannot remember later what he tells her – she informs him later what his response was. He is too wrapped up in his own pain to fully realize his own reactions to it. Days later when the Enterprise has docked and the Academy is trying to recover from Nero’s decimation of the fleet, he ends the relationship. She is upset, as she rightly should be. There are tears in her eyes threatening to escape, but her voice is calm and composed when she asks for some time alone.

Later – many weeks later – they make the transition back to being good friends. She is still welcome company, still willing to listen when he needs to speak his mind. He even agrees to play his lute for her in the rec room while she sings. She still loves him. It is obvious in how her eyes follow him out of a room, how she gravitates toward him in their off hours.

As much as he wishes to, he does not have the capability to love her back. He hurts too much right now.

**1\. Christine Chapel**

It doesn’t matter how much McCoy teases, needles, pokes, prods, or scrapes at him: he has no comment on the matter.

He also tries to avoid Sick Bay as much as possible.

**And One He Loved Back**

**0\. James Tiberius Kirk**

“D’you know the first thing I ever told him?” McCoy grumbles one night when they are commiserating over the apparent death wish of their Captain.

“I believe you informed him of your imminent need to vomit.”

“I told him I was gonna throw up on him,” McCoy continues, as if Spock had not already provided him with an answer. Spock is used to this, or at least he no longer twitches in irritation when it happens. “If he doesn’t fuck off when threatened with a drunk old man hurling on him, he’s certainly not gonna be put off by a Vulcan who damn near choked him to death.”

“We had agreed never to discuss the incident on the bridge,” Spock says quietly, the tips of his ears flushing a faint green. “To return to the original topic of discussion, I still find it highly illogical that the Captain would put his life in danger in a misguided attempt to save my own.”

“I’m sorry, maybe you haven’t been properly introduced. This is James Tiberius Kirk, professional dumbass. He fancies himself a big damn hero, especially where you’re concerned, so he’s not gonna stop throwing himself in front of bullets for you anytime soon.”

“While the weapons were projectiles, I do not believe they were bullets.” Spock continues before McCoy decides a fight over semantics would be the best use of their time while they wait for Kirk to regain consciousness. “Additionally, my heart is not in the same location as a human’s; it was illogical to push me out of the way when the weapon would have done far less damage to me as opposed to the Captain.”

“Jim’s not exactly a xenobiological whiz kid. He’s smart, I’m not about to deny it, but he’s not the one who went through almost a decade worth of medical school.”

“Basic xenobiological anatomy courses should have provided him with the necessary-”

“Look, fine, yeah, he should have known better. Tell me something I don’t know.”

Spock can’t help himself; he won’t admit it but he enjoys the needling almost as much as McCoy does. “You will need to be more specific, Doctor, as I am reasonably sure there are many things I know which you do not.”

“Look, you pointy eared-”

“Aren’t I supposed to be resting right now?” comes the cocky, if rather hoarse, voice from the biobed.

McCoy’s expression of disgruntled rage doesn’t change when he whips his head around to face the Captain. “You’re supposed to stop being such a goddamned idiot.”

“S’not idiotic if you’re trying to help someone,” he argues weakly, flashing Spock the most charming smile he can manage considering the pain meds he's on. “You okay, Spock?”

Spock attempts a withering glare, unsure of his success when the Captain’s face doesn’t change from the half-pained smile. “I am unharmed, as you can clearly see for yourself. I would advise, however, that you stop your heroic act as it seems to do far more damage to you than any newly discovered alien race has ever done to me.”

It’s apparently too many words strung together for a slightly high Kirk, so McCoy steps in helpfully. “He means you’re an idiot.”

“That is not at all what I meant, Doctor.”

“I can read between the lines, Spock. It’s exactly what you meant.”

“I am merely pointing out the illogical nature of pushing me out of the way of a projectile weapon which will do little damage if lodged in my chest.”

“You’re not heartless,” Kirk slurs together, apparently more offended by this idea than at being called an idiot.

Spock finds that curious, filing it away to analyze some other time. “I am not. However, my heart is in an alternate location and would have been unharmed had the natives succeeded in attacking me.”

“Oh,” Kirk says simply. No apology, no discussion of the misunderstanding, and no promise not to do it again.

Life goes on as it inevitably does on the Enterprise. Kirk escapes Sick Bay a full day before McCoy technically agrees to let him go. He sneaks back into his chair on the bridge, orders Chekov to set a new course for some other unknown planet, and off they go into the black again.

Spock can’t stop thinking about the incident in Sick Bay. As Captain and First Officer, Starfleet requires them to keep close tabs on one another, and it certainly isn’t unheard of for one to give his life for the other in dire situations. His Captain, his Jim as he has learned to call him during their off hours, seems to expend an inordinate amount of energy ensuring his First Officer escapes from missions unharmed. Granted, his experience serving as a First Officer is somewhat limited, but he still cannot imagine Pike taking so many liberties with his own health in order to protect Spock’s.

It continues to nag at him for several days, distracting him when he meets with Jim for a game of chess in the Captain’s quarters. “You’re not paying attention,” Jim informs him cheerfully. “I’ll have you checkmated in four moves if you don’t get your strategy together.”

“I must express a measure of surprise that you know how many moves it will take given your usual spontaneous strategy, if indeed it may even be called so,” Spock replies dryly, taking in the board for what seems like the first time that evening.

“I believe it may, considering I’ve kicked your ass with it several times,” Jim returns with a grin, leaning back in his chair and folding his hands behind his head.

He’s still too distracted to think of a proper countermeasure to the mess Jim has made of the board. He puts it off for a moment, fixing Jim with what he hopes is a stern glare. “I wish to discuss your latest adventure that landed you in Sick Bay.”

He looks uncomfortable for a bare moment, covers it by rolling his eyes outrageously. “Seriously, I already got this lecture from Bones. It was dumb and I shouldn’t have done it. Forgive me if I thought I was saving your life.”

The defensiveness gives Spock pause. “I did not intend to insult your intelligence, Jim. I merely wondered why you throw yourself into situations that I am perfectly capable of handling myself. In addition, I am the more expendable officer; it is illogical to put yourself in danger for my sake.”

“You’re not expendable,” he growls back, seemingly ignoring the rest of the speech. “I wouldn’t be half as good a captain if you weren’t there telling me when I’m about to do something stupid. I need you on this ship.”

There’s a vehemence to his voice that Spock doesn’t expect. He chooses his next words carefully. “I did not mean to imply that I am completely expendable, simply more so than yourself.”

“Anyway, it’s not like you haven’t done the exact same thing,” Jim continues, ignoring him again.

“As I have said, that is part of my duty as First Officer.”

“Yeah, Spock. Shoving me away from a crazy death flower when you could have just as easily yelled at me to duck. When it had already killed one member of the security team and could have easily killed you, too. Totally logical.”

Spock raises an eyebrow. “I was unsure if you would process the warning in time. Additionally, I might inquire as to how this is in any way different from pushing me out of the line of fire rather than simply shouting at me to duck or move out of the way.”

Jim glares back at him, but there’s no real anger in it. Spock can’t quite decipher what it is, though, so it appears they are at an impasse. Jim says nothing in response to Spock’s latest diatribe, but somehow he can’t count that as a victory in the conversation.

He considers for a moment. “Is there some other reason you put yourself at risk for my sake?”

That brief uncomfortable look flashes over Jim’s face again before it’s once again a mask of smug bravado. “You gonna get yourself out of checkmate, or can we cut to the chase so I can declare victory?”

Spock recognizes an obstacle when he sees one. Wordlessly he tips over his king and retires for the evening.

After that, he starts keeping records in his personal log using McCoy’s medical records to help him along. Drawing from them in his off-duty hours, he discovers a fascinating pattern:

2261.37: Captain Kirk – broken right femur, sprained ankle  
2261.51: First Officer Spock – bruised rib, minor lacerations  
2261.60: Captain Kirk – cranial bruising, moderate concussion  
2261.61: Captain Kirk – nasal fracture (to be fair, this appears to be an injury sustained after attempting to escape Sick Bay; Spock suspects the cause to be McCoy’s fist)  
2261.68: Captain Kirk – dislocated right shoulder  
2261.72: First Officer Spock – migraines resulting from native pollen  
2261.75: Captain Kirk – punctured lung and esophagus  
2261.83: First Officer Spock – moderate lacerations, migraines resulting from crazy telepathic tentacle monsters (this was apparently not one of McCoy’s most professional moments of record keeping)  
2261.89: Captain Kirk – dislocated left shoulder, broken wrist, bruised knuckles

Spock is surprised to discover the number of times his own name appears on that list, dating back to the beginning of their five year mission. It isn’t as often as Kirk’s, but he attributes that to a Vulcan’s superior strength and the greater amount of force needed to puncture skin or fracture bones. Despite that, he had not realized how often he himself required the services of the medical team (especially given his desire to avoid Nurse Chapel and subsequently the entire Sick Bay), and after compiling the data he realizes that almost every injury can be attributed to an attempt to protect the Captain. It’s only logical, he tells himself. He is the First Officer. It is his duty to ensure the Captain’s safety.

This is how he explains himself as McCoy growls at him while delicately reattaching the point of his left ear.

“You are a pair of goddamned idiots, you know that?” the doctor snarls while he runs the dermal regenerator over the sutures. “You’d cut my workload in half if you’d knock it off with the fucking heroics and just let each other get busted up a little bit.”

“An illogical suggestion, Doctor. If, as you say, our visits to Sick Bay are a result of our attempting to protect one another, one of us would inevitably need your services regardless of whether the ‘heroics’ were successful.”

“It’s a hell of a lot harder to break a Vulcan than it is to break a human. If he let you take half the punches directed at you, I wouldn’t see him in here anywhere near as often.”

“Advice that would not change our current situation. The phaser aimed for our Captain would have undoubtedly been fatal.”

“It could have been just as fatal for you. And anyhow, I don’t mean it would have worked today. I’m saying in more general terms.” He fixes Spock with his best glare. “I know you’ve been accessing my records. I know you know I’m right.”

Spock merely raises an eyebrow at him, unable to lie but unwilling to continue the conversation. “Is the procedure complete?”

McCoy rolls his eyes – this is apparently where Kirk picked up the habit. “Yeah, yeah. Congratulations, you’re still a pointy eared bastard.”

“My parents have legal documentation of their marriage-”

“On Earth and on Vulcan, I know. Get out of my Sick Bay. I’ve got other shit to do.”

He makes his escape with as much dignity as he can muster, considering he’s trying his best to avoid the gaze of McCoy’s head nurse. He makes his way to his own quarters since Alpha shift is currently off-duty, keying in the code and feeling a measure of relief when the artificial heat sweeps over him.

The relief morphs into surprise when he finds Jim sprawled in his desk chair. “Hey. Hope you don’t mind that I broke in.”

He allows himself the smallest of exasperated sighs. “If you are here to lecture me, I regret to inform you that the doctor has preceded you.”

“I wasn’t, actually.” He has that uncomfortable look on his face again, but he isn’t attempting to hide it now. “I, uh… I came to thank you.”

Spock considers that. “To thank me,” he repeats.

“Yeah. If you hadn’t …” He trails off, unsure of himself. This is not the Jim Spock has come to be familiar with. “Anyway, I would’ve been dead if not for you. So thank you.”

This is so different from their usual grumping and arguing over matters like this that Spock feels thrown off balance. “I was only doing my duty-”

“No. You weren’t.” Jim still seems off somehow, but some of his confidence returns when he speaks. “McCoy told me you were accessing the medical records.”

“I do not see why this is such a point of contention with the two of you. As First Officer, I am permitted access to any medical files not labeled as confidential by the Chief Medical Officer.”

Jim waves a hand at him. “That’s not… that’s not what I meant at all. We’re not accusing you of anything. I’m just curious why you developed a sudden interest.”

Why _did_ he develop a sudden interest? It’s not as if the argument about taking metaphorical (and sometimes quite literal) bullets for one another is a new development in their relationship. It’s not as if those records weren’t available to him at any time before now. So why did he choose to research it suddenly?

He looks at Jim as if he somehow holds the answer. His mind flashes back to the hundreds of other occasions he has taken in the human’s features: proud authoritativeness on the bridge, smug cockiness when facing down an enemy, bruised and bleeding when he underestimates an opponent. But he’s never seen it quite like this, so open and … he can’t place the other emotions there.

“Look, Spock, I didn’t actually come here to thank you.” He shakes his head, correcting himself suddenly. “I mean, I did and I meant it, but that’s not all I wanted to say.” Spock watches with some measure of fascination as Jim visibly collects himself, squaring his shoulders and standing to face him. “I think I’m in love with you.”

Years of indoctrination into Vulcan culture slam into him with the force of a well-placed right hook and his brain warps into overdrive. This is illogical, it could ruin the greatest friendship he’s ever had, he needs to someday return to the colony and find another female bondmate to complete his mindlink and repopulate the species-

“Stop thinking so hard,” Jim orders him with a smirk on his face. “I’m not asking you to marry me. I’m not even asking you to have sex with me, not that I’d be against it. I’m just saying that I think I do a lot of stupid things around you because I’ve been in love with you for awhile now.” And if that isn’t enough to make Spock feel as though his mind’s been blown, he continues, “And I think maybe you might feel the same way.”

“I assume you have some form of evidence to support this new hypothesis of yours.” He’s proud of the evenness in his voice, because his mind is still stuck in overdrive. He can’t be in love with his captain, can’t possibly have feelings for another man when to date his only relationships have been with females. His mind is a blur of rational thought and irrational emotion, something in his chest tightening as Jim explains himself.

“Well yeah, I figured I’d have to if I was going to convince the head of the science department.” The smirk is still there, but it seems less certain now. “I did some research of my own when Bones told me you were checking out the medical records. Do you know how shitty the mortality rate tends to be among Captains and First Officers?”

“I believe the only other position with a higher mortality rate is that of a security officer.”

Jim nods. “You’re right. But Captains and First Officers don’t do much better. And despite all the rules and regulations Starfleet forces on us about the First Officer doing all he or she can to protect the Captain, it looks like Captains have a significantly higher mortality rate than First Officers.”

Spock raises an eyebrow at that. That seems entirely wrong to him. It may not be a pleasant truth, but it is a truth all the same that of the two of them, he is the more expendable. “You are certain?”

“Yeah. There’s a certain instinct for self-preservation that a lot of people can’t get over, even in high risk command positions like ours. So I took your medical records and I checked them against some of the most highly commended First Officers in the fleet and I found something interesting: there’s only one officer in the entire database who even comes close to pulling the kind of shit you pull trying to keep me out of trouble.” He grins again, the seriousness of the conversation temporarily forgotten. “Wanna make a guess who it was?”

He thinks of all the admirals currently serving on the board, tries to remember how many of them served on a starship, how many of them had the opportunity to be a First Officer. “Nogura,” he guesses.

“Nogura was pretty good, but he wasn’t the best. The First Officer with the highest number of commendations – and the highest number of injuries, by the way – was a woman by the name of Euremy Robbins.”

Spock knows that name. He raises an eyebrow. “Captain Pike’s First Officer,” he supplies when it finally clicks into place.

“I met her once. Pike only ever calls her Number One so it took awhile for me to make the connection.” He gets serious again. “You know what she did after she retired?”

“I do not.”

“She got married. To one Admiral Christopher Pike. He still calls her Number One, which I think is the weirdest pet name ever, but I guess it works for them.”

Spock takes in all that Jim has told him, and he can’t help the somewhat amused twitching at the corner of his mouth. “So your hypothesis is that since one highly commendable and injury-prone First Officer celebrated her retirement by marrying her commanding officer, that inevitably I must feel the same way regarding my own?”

“Well, it’s only one piece of the puzzle, but that sounds about right. I’ve got another hypothesis for you, but it involves some hands-on research.” Expecting a crude pickup line or some matter of sexual joke, he’s surprised when Jim instead continues with, “Can I kiss you?”

He’s surprised enough that he doesn’t answer right away, contemplating his options. He could refuse, try to get their relationship back on track as a friendship and nothing more. It’s what he _should_ do – he’s never even considered the idea that he might have deeper feelings for his Captain, and to experiment simply due to the suggestion does not seem like the wisest course of action.

Then again, there’s Euremy Robbins to consider: the only First Officer in the history of the fleet who appears to take the same kind of care to ensure her Captain’s safety that Spock himself does. A woman who spent the majority of her career serving only one Captain, and who only spent a year in command of a ship herself before retiring and – according to Jim – marrying the man she spent years protecting. There may very well be some sort of connection between her kind of devotion and his own. And as a scientist, surely he should explore that option before discarding it entirely.

Jim looks as if he’s prepared for the worst when Spock finally speaks. “You may,” he says simply. Jim breaks out into one of his face-splitting grins for a moment, moving closer so he can settle his fingers over the back of Spock’s neck, pulling at him gently to meet him halfway.

There’s that foreign feeling of too-cold skin pressed against his own, but the momentary awareness of it is washed away in a tide of feeling Spock was unprepared for. It’s chaste – actually it’s downright Puritan considering who he’s kissing – but sweet all the same, and he feels a low tingle of pleasure at the sensation of lips pressed against his own.

It’s over far too quickly, the contact broken between them though Jim’s hand is still at the nape of his neck, stroking along his hairline. “So,” he says, and though he’s still grinning he doesn’t have his usual dose of confidence, “can I enter that as supporting evidence? Or do we just forget the whole experiment?”

Spock licks his lips, trying to get the taste of him so he can analyze it. It’s too faint, not enough. “I believe,” he murmurs quietly, “that further tests are necessary before relating them back to the experiment. Expanding the field of data, if you will.”

“For science,” Jim agrees with mock-solemnity, and then he’s kissing Spock again with nowhere near the chasteness he experienced before. Both of Jim’s hands are spearing through his hair now, his chest pressed up against him. Spock’s mouth is being coaxed open with a series of kisses and licks and gentle suckling pressure, and when he finally allows it he’s overwhelmed with the sudden taste of another person. He presses forward eagerly, hands resting possessively over Jim’s hips as he chases the taste of him back to his own mouth, tracing over the strange ribbed pattern on the roof of his mouth, swallowing Jim’s groan with a low rumble of pleasure.

Spock opens his mouth to say something, the words forgotten when Jim starts pressing a trail of kisses along his jaw and up around the delicate point of his ear. He licks the faint green line where the scar is forming over the sutures, nuzzling against the skin there with a kind of affection he wouldn’t have thought Jim could express. “Sorry,” he whispers, breath fluttering over the tender skin there, and Spock can’t repress the shiver before it travels through his body.

“There is no need to apologize.” He slides his hands his hands under Jim’s uniform tunic, pressing his palms against the seemingly chilly skin there, although the sweat slowly seeping into his skin tells him he’s actually quite warm, for a human at least. “I would rather have lost the ear than lost the Captain.”

“I’d rather you keep the ears,” Jim returns, and Spock feels the smile pressing against his temple. “I think they’re sexy.”

“I cannot say I understand the appeal, as they seem perfectly ordinary to me.”

“Well, you’d be wrong then, wouldn’t you?” And before he can argue the matter, that talented tongue of his is tracing over the shell of his ear, licking it all the way up to the point while Spock tries and fails to repress another shiver. “Apparently you think they’re pretty sexy, too.”

“I find their stimulation to be … gratifying,” he manages to gasp out, his hips pressing up against Jim’s without his conscious consent, letting out another low rumble when he feels Jim’s erection grinding against him through their clothes.

“I can see that,” Jim grins, pulling back to take in Spock’s flushed and slightly disheveled appearance. Apparently Jim approves, because he’s being swallowed into another kiss, Jim trying to very subtly maneuver him to take a step backwards.

Spock allows it, submitting to Jim’s nonverbal cues as he loses himself in the kiss, surprised out of it only when he feels his lower back pressing suddenly into the edge of his desk. He's grateful for the support, leaning against it and dragging Jim forward into another searing kiss, licking the slightly salty flavor off the roughness of his tongue, drinking in the other man’s groans and garbled cursing.

There are icy fingers skittering along his ribs, and he pulls himself out of the kiss with another small noise of surprise, the chill of his hands a shock against his quickly overheating skin. The break in contact is necessary, however, as Jim deftly pulls his tunic up and off of him, peeling it off of his arms and tossing it on the floor. Before Spock can protest the treatment of his clothes, however, Jim’s lips are back on his skin, tracing along the tendon in his neck, and biting down unexpectedly at the juncture of his shoulder. He shudders and groans as teeth worry a blooming green mark there, hands tugging ineffectually at Jim’s clothing. He simply won’t break contact with Spock long enough to let him remove it.

The kisses and light nips start trailing lower over his chest, licking briefly at each of his nipples, then kissing a straight line down along his abdominals, pausing to delve into his navel. Spock realizes distantly that it’s been a slow journey culminating in having Jim on his knees in front of him, and the image does things to him that make him grateful to have the desk against his back for support. His knees threaten to let him fall to the floor for an instant before solidifying again. He lets himself pant for a moment, tries to regain his bearings before he speaks. “Remove your shirt,” he whispers, only vaguely aware that it sounds like a command rather than a request.

Jim grins up at him, pupils dilated with only a thin ring of blue surrounding them, lips flushed dark with arousal. “What, no please?” he teases.

“Please,” Spock offers quietly, seriously.

The grin shifts into another expression entirely, and whatever it means, it shivers through Spock’s nerves like wildfire. He wonders how often he can manage to get that expression back on Jim’s face, because it makes him feel…

It makes him _feel_.

Their eyes remain locked on each other as Jim grabs the hem of his tunic and discards it without ceremony, without even showing off a little bit. Spock looms over him, tracing fingers over the play of muscles in his upper arms, along the line of his jaw as Jim starts working at the rest of Spock’s clothing. He moves with him easily as he discards first one boot, then the other, squirms in anticipation when nimble fingers make quick work of the fastenings of his pants, peeling them off his legs and tossing them aside.

He shivers at the sensation of Jim nosing his way from his navel to his groin, at the rough hands working their way up the backs of his thighs, at the tease of a kiss to the base of his cock. “Jim,” he whimpers quietly, hands threading through the short brown hair. “This is not … conducive to-”

“Stop arguing,” he orders, licking a long, wet stripe along the ridges there.

Spock shudders again, and he’d be ashamed at his lack of control if his brain weren’t entirely focused on Jim. “There is no way to reciprocate when-”

“Stop arguing,” he repeats, punctuating it with a short squeeze to his backside. “That’s an order.” His hands move to fit perfectly along his hipbones, and before Spock can make any further protest, Jim fits his lips around him and sucks him down without further preamble.

It’s all he can do not to surge forward and fuck into his mouth without regard for Jim’s comfort. As it is, he jerks his hips helplessly against the desk, fingers clenching and unclenching in Jim’s hair as he tries to get his physical responses under control. Jim, however, seems to be taking it as a personal challenge to break that control, swirling his tongue over the head before hollowing his cheeks and increasing the suckling pressure.

Spock gives in, no longer attempting to argue or direct matters to a more comfortable location. He tries desperately to keep his eyes open because the blissful look on Jim’s face is almost as good as the slick wet pressure around his cock. When he can’t manage it he instead presses his fingers to Jim’s temple, not quite melding with him but drawing feelings and emotions from his skin, emitting a faint keening sound at the sudden onslaught of _love this, love you, can’t believe you’re letting me, want to see you-_

And knowing that, knowing Jim wants him to lose control, permits him to do so. He lets out a choked gasp, unable to prevent his hips from thrusting forward as he comes, his thighs shaking under calloused hands.

There’s a convulsive swallowing motion over his suddenly oversensitive cock, and he whimpers as Jim lets him slide out of his mouth. He braces his feet against the floor and lets most of his weight rest against the desk, determined to stay upright as Jim stands to face him. “I… That was…” There’s a faint smear of white at one corner of his mouth, and Spock brushes a thumb over it in an attempt to clear it away. Jim surprises him by tilting his head and capturing the finger in his mouth, sucking the mess off the pad of his thumb, grinning when Spock lets out another low groan. “I never expected you to be so vocal,” he whispers, pressing forward to kiss him again.

There’s another flavor layered in with what he already associates as the taste of Jim, and he decides he likes the notion of tasting himself there. It sparks something fierce and possessive in him, and he musters enough energy to anchor Jim’s head in place as he licks the taste from all the corners of his mouth. There’s the feel of rough cloth rubbing against his thigh and he breaks the kiss in order to speak. “What do you want?” he whispers against the flushed, swollen lips.

“Touch me,” Jim whispers back, one hand fumbling to get his pants open, then reaching for one of Spock’s. “Just touch me. And don’t stop talking.” At Spock’s raised eyebrow he colors faintly. “I like your voice,” he mutters, as if the confession is more embarrassing than having gone down on his First Officer.

A sudden idea occurring to him, Spock presses his lips to Jim’s ear. “Turn around,” he orders, gratified at the small pause between the command and the movement. It’s easier to shimmy the pants down his hips this way, easier to keep a free hand pressed against Jim’s stomach, anchoring him in place. He did something similar with Nyota once early on in their relationship in an effort to teach him how she liked to be touched. He pulls Jim flush against him, tangling their fingers together and wrapping both of them around his cock. “Show me what you want.” He keeps his voice low and even, lips still pressed against his ear, smiling at the shudder and moan it earns him.

Jim moves so his hand is clutched on top of Spock’s, urging him into a slow, firm stroking motion. “Just like that,” he groans, closing his eyes and tilting his head back against Spock’s shoulder. “Talk to me.”

He puzzles over what he could possibly say, unaccustomed to speaking when his body is focused on giving or receiving pleasure. But he keeps up the firm stroking along his cock, twisting his grip now and then just to hear Jim whimper. “How long have you desired this, Jim?” he murmurs quietly, intimately against his temple.

“Oh, fuck, I don’t even know.” His spreads his legs a little, feet stumbling a bit in an effort to keep them firmly on the floor. “Maybe since the Narada.”

Spock tries to decipher what could possibly have appealed to him at that point in time. “Was it that we were able to work together?”

“No.” He seems unwilling to say anything more, so Spock slows his stroking, hiding a smile at the whine that escapes his throat. “Spock…”

“What was it, Jim? What sparked this?”

Jim squirms and tries to thrust his hips forward, whining again when Spock’s free hand tightens its grip on his stomach, preventing him from moving with an easy, unnatural strength. “S’the stranglin’,” he mutters, clearly unwilling to clarify further.

He can’t quite believe it. “The strangling?” he repeats, surprised enough that his hand stops moving.

Jim squeezes around his wrist in an attempt to get him to move again. “You were way too fucking strong to even think about fighting you. And it proved that you could be passionate about something, even if it was trying to choke me to death.” He whimpers, clutching at Spock’s hand. “Now please move?”

He complies, giving him a firm, faster rhythm to ride this time. “I find it difficult to believe,” he mutters against Jim’s earlobe, unable to hide the smile now, “that your interest in me was sparked by an attempt to end your life.”

“I’m a kinky bastard, wh-what can I say,” he stutters, his eyebrows squeezing together and his breath coming harder. “Fuck, Spock, I’m gonna…”

“Come,” Spock finishes the sentence for him, turning it into an order. Apparently his voice has more power over him than he had imagined, because he complies with another sharp twist of their hands, jaw agape in a silent cry as he comes messily over their fingers.

He watches in complete fascination as Jim rides out the sensations, then slumps like dead weight against Spock’s chest, heaving for breath. The blue eyes slowly flutter back open, giving him a hazy, affectionate kind of look. “So…” The voice is hoarse, so he clears his throat and tries again. “So what d’you think of my hypothesis now?”

Spock gives up on trying to fight the smile that’s taken over his face, nosing into the short brown hair and pressing a kiss there. “I think it requires further testing before it can be confirmed.”

Jim barks out a short laugh then, kicking off the rest of his clothes and turning to face Spock. “Well c’mon then. Let’s move this to the bed. You know, for science.”

“For science,” he agrees with as much gravity as he can muster.


End file.
